The Music Box
by Tuesdays
Summary: Storybrooke, England, 1865. The people have become bigoted and self-righteous, living in the shadow of the town's asylum that is run by its powerful Headmistress Mills. But when a stranger arrives in town and Lord Gold, the the asylum's wealthy patron, finds out that Belle has been locked up for the last twenty-eight years, the town is caught in a spiral of suspicion and murder.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello everyone,_

_Just a little disclaimer: "The Music Box" is technically speaking the sequel to my previous Rumbelle fanfiction, "The Snow Globe", but can be read separately. All you really need to know is that it ended with Belle breaking her deal with Rumplestiltskin just before the Curse strikes the Dark Castle, leaving Rumple to believe that she has effectively killed herself after Regina told her about Rumple's evil background. The story then picks up twenty-eight years later in Victorian England, where the Curse has transported the people of Storybrooke. Although it is essentially a Rumbelle fanfiction I do dedicate some attention to various other characters because I think it is interesting to ponder what their roles might be in this setting. And finally, I am not a historian so I apologize in advance for all historical inaccuracies. Thanks for reading! _

I

_Storybrooke, Kent, 1865_

The Kentish coastline was a rough stretch of land, and the people of Storybrooke proudly considered their town a pinnacle of civilization among its dark pine woods and ragged, rocky shores. The respectability was apparent in the town square with its neat, white-washed church, cobblestones and chestnut trees; the stately houses of the well-to-do elite in the centre of the town and the well-cared for cottages with their thatched roofs on the outskirts, the neat farms among the surrounding fields. The town lay cradled between two hills, each crowned with an imposing building surrounded by high walls, visible from almost everywhere in town but not quite part of it. One was the extravagant Gold mansion, basking in its magnificent park that was one of the sights of Storybrooke. And facing it from the other hill, there was the asylum. A high building of grey stone, neat bars at each window and with a sturdy front gate above which it read in wrought-iron letters: STORYBROOKE INSTITUTION FOR THE INSANE. The people of Storybrooke, looking up at the building, felt both a thrill of discomfort at the thought of these people, like crazed, caged animals, and at the same time a sense of priggish satisfaction that they were safely locked away.

The institution was accessible only by a road that wound up the hill and it was on this road that, on a Sunday afternoon in early November, a horse-drawn carriage was making its way to the asylum. The farmer children in the fields, brown and barren now with winter quickly approaching, turned their heads when they heard the sound of wheels. All of them recognized the black carriage with the golden wheel on its door immediately, but craned their heads for a better look anyway in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the mysterious Lord Gold. As it was, they could make out no more than the outline of his head under the top hat, and when they ran along by the side of the road the coachman irritably shooed them away with the tip of his whip.

Inside, Gold paid no attention to the sounds of children's voices. He rested his hands and chin on his cane, staring ahead. He was not looking forward to his weekly visit to the asylum for tea, a preposterous little ceremony of "gratitude" from staff and patients for his generous funding to the asylum. A routine all the more dull because Storybrooke had been trapped in the interminable, dreary month of November for twenty-eight years.

As the carriage passed through the gate (the porter tipping his hat) he could already see the staff in their white uniforms lined up in military formation outside and, at top of the front steps, the three most important figures at the asylum. Head Psychiatrist Dr. Hopper, a bespectacled gingery fellow; the flashy Head Physician Dr Whale, who cut a dashing figure even in a white coat; but they both stood, as always, in the magnificent shadow of Headmistress Mills. It was she who shook his hand first when he had descended from his carriage, with a false smile on her face and a genuine glint of malice in her dark eyes, welcomed him to the Storybrooke Institution for the Insane and led him to the institution's little chapel, where the rest of the staff and patients were waiting. So it always went and so it was again on this particular Sunday, as Gold found himself reclining in an uncomfortable chair with a cup of lukewarm tea in his hand. He was not listening to the psalm that the patients, neatly lined up in rows, were singing to him (songs about loving father figures and green pastures had lost all appeal to him long ago) but instead surveyed the rows of faces, automatically picking out the people he knew – although they had no idea that they knew knew _him_. There was the wolf girl of the red cape ("wayward and hysterical"), looking washed-out now in her starched apron and tightly pulled-back hair. The foolish old man ("prone to persistent delusions"), sorrowful and strangely bereft with his arms hanging down limply without the wooden puppet he spoke to as if it were a child. The seven ridiculous little men, Hypochondriac, Manic, Anxious, Hypersomniac, Morose, Mute and the one who thought he was a doctor. And off to the side, the catatonic man they had found in the woods, who neither spoke nor moved, but slumped in a chair, mouth slightly open and eyes to the ground. No longer quite so Charming, Gold thought dispassionately. There was one familiar face missing, however. Where was Jefferson? he wondered, just as he realized that Headmistress Mills, Dr Hopper and Dr Whale had started clapping on either side of him, as well as the rest of the staff. The psalm was finished and he joined in the polite applause with languid movements.

"Lovely, lovely," he said.

"It is in the voices of children and fools that you can hear the true voice of the divine, don't you agree?" Headmistress Mills said, looking at him innocently over her tea cup.

Gold bared his teeth. "_Quite_." He rose to his feet for his customary little address to his beneficiaries. "My dear unfortunate souls," he started, knowing they cared as little as he did, "you have all been struck by a variety of ..._afflictions _of the mind; as with any affliction of the body, you require tranquillity and care, and are fortunate enough to receive this from the excellent Drs Hopper and Whale, and of course the saintly Headmistress Mills..." He thought he saw the wolf girl's eyes flash up, "...for which you owe them a life-long debt of gratitude. As always I am glad to be of assistance, in any way I can, for are love of thy fellow man and charity not the greatest virtues?" He let a brief pause fall to let everyone ponder his rhetorical question, then set down his tea cup on the table beside him. "I therefore hope to see you all much improved in mind and spirit when I return next week," he said, as always. There was never any improvement.

The assembly hereby being effectively over, the parlour started to empty. Gold started towards the door when Headmistress Mills laid a hand on his arm. "Might I speak to you in my office?" she said, adding: "It will only take a minute."

He grudgingly inclined his head. "As you wish, Headmistress."

"Good, I -" she started, but was interrupted by the porter who came rushing up behind Gold.

"Urgent message from Chief Inspector Graham, Headmistress," he panted, and she sighed.

"I'm terribly sorry," she told Gold. "Could you possibly see yourself to my office? I'll be there as soon as I can."

….

Headmistress Mills's office was a large, if sombre, room overlooking the grounds; standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, Gold could see the flawless green lawn, the rigid privets planted along the high walls, which were stripped bare of any plants that might aid a patient in climbing over. The asylum was a place devoid of love and happiness, he knew, no matter how well-maintained it was, how tasteful the dark shingles on the roofs, how immaculate the long, echoing corridors, how stainless the white uniforms. No-one would ever get better in this place. No-one was truly _expected _to get better.

He heard the door open and turned – but it was not Regina who stood in the doorway.

"Please," the wolf girl – what was her name again? - whispered, hurriedly closing the door behind her and coming closer, "I need to speak to you."

"Do the nurses know you're here?"

"I managed to get away when everyone was leaving the chapel." She looked at him beseechingly. "I need to speak to you."

"So you said."

"This place," she said in a low voice, "is _hell. '_Honest labour is the best cure for any unfitness of the mind' they say, and we scrub and clean, we do laundry and copy Bible texts until our hands blister; we are not allowed any possessions of our own, not even letters from home, and every few days they search our rooms to find something –_ anything – _that they can take away from us. And there is punishment if they find something; or if we're tardy, or work too slowly, speak too much, laugh too loud, walk out of line, don't make our beds properly, leave our room without permission; they deny you your meals, or drench you in cold water and make you stand out in the yard for hours or... or they lock you up by yourself in the basement. For days, even weeks." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands, and he suspected it had happened to her. She had always been a feisty one, he seemed to recall.

"That is the policy at the Institution, my dear," he said. "Your grandmother is the one who had you committed, isn't that right?" She nodded. "Clearly she agrees with Headmistress Mills that discipline is what you need. What on earth do you want _me _to do?"

"Get me out of here," she said, her voice urgent as she drew closer to him. "Please. You are the institution's greatest benefactor – the Headmistress won't refuse you if you say you want to take me with you. I can cook for you, clean for you, whatever you want." She stood very close to him now, her expression a mixture of despair, fear and hope as she ran one hand slowly down his chest and repeated: "I will do whatever you want."

"I see." He pushed her hand away impatiently. "Unfortunately, my dear, I have no use for that. _Any _of that."

"No – _please,_" she said, her voice raising almost to a shriek now as her hands scrabbled at his waistcoat, his jacket, as she tried to cling to him. "You have to get me out of here! Please!"

"You are not well, my dear," he snapped, grasping both her wrists to pry her hands away from him. "It is only a manifestation of your disease that you try to resist the cure, which is _strict guidance _to lead a fruitful and disciplined life. Now," he said, as her head slumped dejectedly forward, shoulders shaking lightly, "I forgive you this outburst; I suspect Headmistress Mills would be less inclined to be charitable if she were to find you in her office, harassing the man who is – as you yourself pointed out – the institution's greatest benefactor."

She nodded slowly, turned and went back to the door. "I do apologize, Lord Gold," she mumbled at the door and, without meeting his eye again, left the room and closed the door behind her. It was not a moment too soon, either, for within a few minutes Gold heard brisk footsteps in the corridor, the door opened and the Headmistress entered.

"Rumple," she smiled, as usual the first to break the charade. "So sorry to keep you waiting."

"You've done worse." He watched her cross to her desk, her Victorian decorum abandoned for a moment as she perched on its edge to look at him. The rather severe look she affected in this world, the gathered skirts of dark green satin, the tightly corseted waist, the meticulously pinned-up dark hair, suited her well and brought out the strong beauty of her face. He noted this with complete detachment, not altering for a moment the fact that there was no one in the world whom he hated more. It had been a fierce, consuming hatred at first that, over the years, had burned itself out to a dull, blunted feeling of intense distaste. As Regina was well aware.

"You seemed exceptionally distracted during your visit today," she said, "considering how much you _care _about the plight of these poor idiots."

"I can relate to them only too well," he retorted, sauntering across the room.

"You were never quite sane yourself, after all."

"No," he agreed immediately, "but none of these people are insane, and we both know it; they just haven't lost _every _remnant of their true selves, so you have locked them in a prison within the prison that is Storybrooke. Tell me," he said, voice hardening a little, "do you enjoy playing house with the people who suffer most?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she said, pretending not to notice his tone.

"Well, you got everything you wanted, after all. The wealth, the power, the knowledge that you stripped absolutely everybody else of their happy ending." He paused in front of an oval oil painting of a pale young boy in a sailor suit, suspended on the wall beside the bookshelves. "How is dear Henry?"

"He is well," she said, coming to stand beside him. Gold noted the sudden softness in her tone with another little stab of hatred and envy, which prompted him to do something he immediately regretted.

"Yet another reason to be smug," he said tartly. "_You_ could simply replace the person you loved most." He wished he had kept quiet: he never referred to the Unspeakable.

"My dear Rumple," she said softly, "but you can't possibly blame _me _for that little tragedy? Whose fault is it really that sweet Belle chose to take her own life in the old world, rather than come to this one with _you_? All I did, after all, was tell her the truth."

Gold had not heard Belle's name said aloud for years, and the pain upon hearing it from Regina's mouth was shockingly vivid and sharp, as if not a day had passed by since he had found himself all alone in the new world, holding in his hands nothing but a single chipped tea cup. It was the only strong emotion he was still capable of after all these years and it was with an enormous effort that he said softly: "Was there a reason you asked me to your office? Or was it just for _small talk_?"

She shrugged. "You and I have known each other for a long time, Rumple; I admit, sometimes I like to reminisce about the old days – if only so that I can congratulate myself on the improvements I made." There was something almost akin to affection in her voice as she looked at him, and for a moment they both stood there in silence, two people from another world together in that study on a grey English day. It was Gold who snapped them out of it – if only because it was too much to bear.

"I'm afraid I have matters to attend to," he said, seeing from her eyes and her smile that she knew his pain exactly.

"Of course," she said, "and I have my poor idiots to attend to. It's not easy being the headmistress of an asylum, you know."

"Well," he said tartly, pulling on his gloves, "you're the most demented creature I know. I couldn't think of a better place for you."

And with that he bowed stiffly, and left.

….

Far, far below the office where this exchange took place, in the depths of the asylum, a young woman awoke from troubled dreams with an uneasy feeling. It was a mystery to her that she dreamed at all, because there seemed to be precious little material for dreams. All she knew was this plain room with its thickly padded walls, the high, narrow window with the grill that allowed for light to come in but not for her to look out, the platform with the thin mattress where she slept, and a wedge of grey corridor when she peered out through the little hatch in the door. There were only two people she ever saw; the first was the unsmiling nurse, who brought her her meals and washing water and clean white cotton shifts to wear, and cut her nails for her with brisk – sometimes painful – efficiency, as Belle was not allowed to touch sharp objects herself. The other was Headmistress Mills, who paid her irregular visits. Sometimes she could hear other people, in the remote distance – other patients in the asylum, she assumed, who were brought to the cellars to be punished; they were always locked up too far away to speak to them, however. Once, Belle had started screaming at the top of her lungs when she had heard a shrieking woman being brought down the stairs at the end of the corridor, but within minutes the nurse had been in her room with a syringe, and when Belle had woken up she had a massive headache and all was quiet again. Belle did not know why she was permanently locked up in isolation, permanently punished for a crime she did not remember committing. For Belle had no memories at all of her life before this; she would not even have known that her name was Belle if that wasn't what the Headmistress called her. When asked why she could not live upstairs, where the other people were, the Headmistress had only smiled indulgently and said: "We would not want others to know that you are here, do we know? Word might just get out." Why her existence had to be a secret was only one of the many, many questions the Headmistress wouldn't answer.

Belle rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She no longer had the energy to cry.

….

Belle's cell was at the very back of the asylum, too far away to hear the rattle of wheels as Gold's carriage started back towards the gates where another coach was just rolling onto the asylum grounds. Regina saw it swing through the gates from the window in her office and emerged from the front door just as it pulled up and Chief Inspector Graham leaped down from the front seat, tipping his bowler hat politely at her. "Headmistress Mills."

"Chief Inspector," she said, watching the two other constables alighting from the sideboard. One of them retrieved a key from his uniform pocket and started to unlock the padlocked door in the back of the coach. There was no movement behind its small, barred window. "I received your message that you caught him. Did he get far?"

Chief Inspector Graham shook his head. "Never made it across the parish borders. Of course, he was slowed down by the child." His voice, with its melodious Irish lilt, was thick with dislike. "A blonde girl of about ten years old, just like the previous times. Lured her away from the schoolyard – promised to show her a _magical world_, apparently. It's sickening, that's what it is."

"Well, thank God you found him, Chief Inspector, and brought that poor lamb back to her parents, and this man back here."

The constable had opened the doors now and called inside: "Come on out, son!"

There was no movement and, at an impatient gesture of Graham's, the two constables reached inside and dragged out, not too gently, a haggard-looking, unshaven man in chains. His eyes, sunk and dark, widened when he saw Regina.

"There, there, Jefferson," she started, but he shouted over her, wrestling against the constables: "No! No! _No! _You said you would take me to the constabulary, not here!"

Regina sighed, smiling at the two constables. "If you would take him down to the cellars, please," she said. "Some time in isolation would do him good, I think."

The constables nodded and wrestled a squirming Jefferson up the steps and into the great hall, where his cries - "No! No! No!" - echoed loudly. Regina and Graham followed, more slowly.

"You really _must _take better care," Graham said emphatically. "This is the third time now; we can't have a child snatcher on the loose."

"Don't worry," she assured him with a smile. "Let's see him try to escape in a straitjacket."

"All right. The constables can handle it from here; I have to return to the station to write my report."

"Of course." He was about to turn away, but she laid an intimate hand on his arm. "Call on me after dinner, Graham," she whispered.

A small smile appeared on his serious, handsome face. "I will."

He watched her disappear through the same doorway the two constables had taken Jefferson, and the smile turned to a frown. How much time did that leave him for his report? He automatically looked up at the enormous clock in the hall, before remembering that the clock stood still. It had pointed out quarter past eight for as long as he could remember.

Little did he know that it was the last day that time would be frozen.


	2. Chapter II

_Hello everyone,_

_Here is chapter two! I'm afraid it turned out rather long, but I really wanted to end it at a certain point in the story. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!_

II

Few inhabitants of Storybrooke noticed the arrival of a stranger late at night. Dropped off by the stage coach on the country road, the woman and the young boy who accompanied her walked the last two miles into town. They headed first for Regina Mills's imposing home on Grimm Street and, after a brief exchange with the lady of the house at the front door, the stranger then walked on by herself. The streets were almost empty that late at night and there was no one to see her arrive on the town square which boasted, amongst others, the Storybrooke Hotel, the town's most upscale establishment. The hotel's elderly owner, the widow Lucas, was therefore one of the first to learn of her arrival when the receptionist came to inform her that a guest had just checked in. It was startling news, for visitors from outside were rare – if she had paused to think, she might have realized that she couldn't even recall the last visitor – but the widow Lucas did not pause; hiding her surprise behind a congenial smile, hands held out magnanimously, she rushed to the reception to inspect the new arrival in person.

"Welcome to Storybrooke," she said, "Mrs...?"

"Swan," the other said, "Emma Swan."

"I am Mrs Lucas, the owner," she said, adding coyly: "My regulars call me Granny. It's always such a pleasure to receive new guests." Granny's keen eyes, always ready for a swift judgement and the picking out of details that made for good gossip, darted across the woman's figure even as she made an inviting gesture and said, "Won't you follow me, please?" She would usually have thought it beneath her to escort a guest herself, but would make an exception – if only because she wasn't quite sure what to make of her guest. She had immediately noted that the woman's left ring finger was bare, even though the woman was attractive enough: slim, with thick blonde hair that had been pinned up beneath her bonnet, and a fair, appealing face. Perhaps she was a widow, Granny mused as she preceded her guest up the stairs to the first floor. It might explain why she had showed up without a chaperone. Her social class (always a key point for Granny) was hard to establish; her clothes were simple and dark but well-cut, complemented by a tailored pink jacket that Granny thought was a tad flashy, but which might have come into fashion outside Storybrooke. The fashion catalogues she had ordered from London last month had never arrived, after all.

"There were are," she said, opening the door to room number 7 and going ahead to turn on the gas light on the dresser. "I hope you'll find it comfortable."

"I'm sure I will." Miss Swan set down her suitcase by the bed and went over to the window, overlooking the town square. Eyeing the meagre luggage, Granny inquired: "May I ask where you travelled from?"

"London."

"I see. And what brought you to as remote a town as Storybrooke?"

The young woman shrugged. "I decided to spend some time with a friend," she said, which was much vaguer than Granny had hoped, but when Miss Swan continued: "The journey here has been long and tiring. If you don't mind..." she finally realized that she was hovering and, with a pious "Good night," she retreated.

On the square outside, the hands of the clock in the church tower lurched into motion.

….

Although few had noticed the new arrival, in the week that followed almost all of Storybrooke would feel that something had imperceptibly changed. Not only had the church clock started running again, but fresh sentiments stirred in the minds of the townspeople. The dressmaker, who had sewn everything by hand as long as she could remember, decided to order two sewing machines from London. The carriage repairman built and sold Storybrooke's very first bicycle. Granny was delighted to find that her fashion catalogues had finally been delivered and dismayed to discover that ruffled sleeves had gone out of fashion years ago. Mary Margaret Blanchard, the school teacher, read some pamphlets from a group of women who called themselves the Suffragettes, realized that there was no reason women shouldn't be allowed to vote and erected the Storybrooke Suffragette Front. And Dr Whale received a parcel of medical periodicals and books and had an epiphany. No more than a week after the clock had started running again, he burst into Regina's office unannounced.

"Dr Whale," the Headmistress said from behind her desk. "Is there any particular reason you've decided not to knock?"

Dr Whale could tell she was in a bad mood but ignored it, excitedly slamming down one of the books he was carrying on her desk.

"What's that?" Regina made no movement to touch it.

"Proof that we have been fundamentally on the wrong trackhere at the institution," Dr. Whale said passionately. "God knows why that blasted mail coach failed to show up for so long, but the fact is that _science _hasn't stood still outside our little town, Headmistress Mills. Doctors, biologists – _scientists_ – have delved into medicine and mental treatment and made significant advances."

"I see." Regina's voice was flat, but once again Dr Whale paid no heed.

"We've been following the oldmethod all this time: hard work, cleanliness, strict discipline, bringing in the Reverend once a week. But none of that cures a biological ailment! We should have been focusing on the body's chemistry, on nerve endings and the workings of the brain! Headmistress Mills," he said, "It has been discovered that the violently insane can be cured by means of surgery; specifically, a procedure in which the brain is accessed through the eye socket, to severe the connection between the two brain halves. It's known as a "lobotomy" and –"

"My dear Dr Whale," Regina said sharply, "I'm sure we don't need all these far-fetched modern shenanigans in this institution. Much more important is the solid foundation of honest labour and a predictable, disciplined schedule -"

"Then let me _show _you," Dr Whale said doggedly, starting to open the book on the desk when Regina laid an imperious hand on its front cover.

"Don't bother, Dr Whale," she snapped. "Although your eagerness to shove a surgical tool through the patients' eye sockets to improve their health is commendable, I am not interested. And I would like to remind you that _I _am still in charge of this institution. Now kindly _leave._" Even as Dr Whale opened his mouth to protest she impatiently swept the book off her desk and he just barely managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

Frustrated, he cast a last glance over his shoulder before he closed her door behind him; she was gazing ahead of her with an unusually dark scowl. She had been out of sorts for days now, Dr Whale thought to himself. Ever since the day the clock in the hall started moving again, in fact.

…

Isolated in the depths of the asylum Belle had no way of knowing about the change that had come over Storybrooke. And yet there was a major difference: she was no longer alone.

A week ago she had been roused from her half-sleep by the sound of frantic shouts and the footsteps of several men thundering down the stairs and advancing _into her corridor_. A door was opened and then the shouting man – whoever he was – was cast into the cell next to Belle's and the door slammed heavily shut.

"You stay here, pervert," she heard a man's voice growl, and another man spoke to the nurse as the footsteps grew distant: "I can't say I envy you for your line of work, miss..."

The screams in the next cell continued unabated even as everything else grew quiet again, until eventually they diminished in pitch and volume as the invisible prisoner behind the wall grew exhausted and out of breath. Finally his voice resolved to dry, thin sobbing.

Belle stole over to her cell door and pushed open the small hatch. "Hello?" she whispered, as loud as she dared; she had heard the nurse go upstairs with the men but didn't want to risk alerting someone. "Don't cry, everything will be all right." She had no idea if she was right but was desperate to speak to someone. "What did you do? Why are you here?"

There was a long silence in which she was afraid that the other prisoner couldn't hear her whisper, or maybe simply didn't respond. She was about to try again when a low, hoarse whisper reached her that she couldn't make out.

"What did you say?"

"I took a child from the schoolyard and tried to leave Storybrooke." The voice was flat and expressionless.

"Storybrooke? Is that the name of where we are?"

For a long time the man didn't speak. "Yes, it's the name of the town," he said, and demanded more sharply: "How can you not know? What's your name?"

"My – my name is Belle," she offered. It was the first time she had ever introduced herself.

"Belle?" he repeated. "You're Belle?" He sounded incredulous, although she didn't know why, and then there was a dry chuckle in the next cell and she thought she heard him murmur to himself: "Oh, this is too rich."

"What's _your _name?" she asked, frantic for him not to shut her out now that she finally had someone to talk to.

There was another long pause in which she feared that he had lost interest, but finally his voice drifted through the empty corridor again. "Jefferson."

….

When Gold's butler first mentioned that the church clock had started moving again, Gold barely glanced up from the _Storybrooke Mirror_. "Really?" he said. "About time." Only when Cogsworth guffawed politely did he realize the unintentional pun. "Tell the kitchen I like my toast better toasted next time," he said without a smile, pushing away his plate.

It had happened, then, against all the odds: the one possible threat to the Curse had somehow found her way to Storybrooke. Gold cared little whether the Curse was broken or not, although he supposed he might enjoy watching Regina squirm. But even that thought didn't lighten his mood, which was ruined by something that had happened before breakfast.

Gold did not wish to be plagued by memories in his own home, so the small army of maids, footmen and gardeners who maintained his magnificent estate consisted of dull young men and women in immaculately starched uniforms, all of whom he had chosen because he had not known them in the old world. And although he was generally a distant, but not unkind, employer, on his way to breakfast that morning he had unexpectedly come upon a maid singing as she scrubbed the hall floor – and the memory had stung him so unexpectedly, reminding him of _her_, that he had stormed at the girl until she had rushed away in tears. Sighing, he now laid down his newspaper, leaned back his head and closed his eyes. As if the day wasn't bad enough, his butler continued cautiously: "May I remind you that Mrs Lucas's dinner party is tonight, milord?"

….

Across town, Granny was wondering whether to invite her new guest to the dinner she was hosting that evening. Granny considered herself a social heavyweight in Storybrooke, hosting regular lunches, soirées, dinners and musical nights for Storybrooke's most wealthy, powerful and interesting citizens. For that evening, she had been planning a small, intimate dinner for eight in the hotel dining room. The guest list consisted of Albert Spencer, the town's attorney; the enigmatic Lord Gold who, even though she found him rather intimidating, was easily its wealthiest citizen; Sidney Glass, the journalist from the colonies who she thought was terribly exotic with his finely chiselled dark features; Lady Tremaine, one of her closest friends; the dashing Dr Whale and sophisticated Mrs Mills, prominent citizens who, she hoped, would have outrageous stories to tell about the goings-on at the asylum. (Dr Hopper had been left off the list, however; she found the timid, gingery man excruciatingly dull.) Including herself, she was still one lady short to even out the company; she had been pondering inviting Mary Margaret Blanchard, the school teacher, but – a snob at heart – Granny hated to think of the level of sophistication being brought down by this clearly second-best choice. Better to go with Emma Swan, she thought. She wasn't sure exactly what her guest had been up to after several days in Storybrooke, except that she had been out most of the time and Granny had only caught the occasional glimpse of her, but at least she could offer her other guests the spice of someone _new._

….

The saviour caught Gold's eye right away when he alighted from his carriage in front of Granny's hotel that evening, even though her simple dress and absence of jewellery put her in the shade of Granny's more substantial, maroon satin-clad figure as they stood side-by-side in the reception to greet the guests as they arrived one by one.

"Mrs Lucas," Gold said quietly, bowing, as the younger woman introduced herself: "Emma Swan."

"Charmed. Lord Gold." This was her, then; he didn't give her much of a chance against Regina. She was visibly uncomfortable in her plain dress among the men in their smart smokings – that idiot Herbert Spencer, the pitiable Sidney Glass, the ambitious fool Dr Whale – and Regina, resplendent in her dark evening gown, with a graciousness in her voice that was belied by the vicious look in her eyes. Lady Tremaine was belatedly ushered to her seat when the others had already sat down and were awaiting the hors d'oeuvres.

"Terribly sorry," she said, taking her place next to Spencer. "I'm afraid my stepdaughter was up to her usual antics just as I was about to leave – she claims she's developed back pains that hinder her in her house work."

"Lady Tremaine's stepdaughter is with child," Granny explained to Miss Swan, adding in a scandalized whisper: "_Out of wedlock..._!" Gold had been seated across from Miss Swan and, glancing up, he could tell she didn't look impressed.

"There's only so much a woman can do," Lady Tremaine said coolly, shaking out her napkin and spreading it across her lap as waiters entered with plates of duck pâté. "By the time I married her late father, the girl had already become a vain, wicked little creature; as her new mother, I did try to teach her the values of decent work, earning her keep – but there was no stopping her plummet into sin, I'm afraid."

Gold, who had heard it all before, tasted the pâté. A tad too salty. Regina, however, was nodding in sympathetic agreement, and Granny added indignantly: "This is exactly why I had my granddaughter Roberta committed, to stop it from getting this far; oh, the dresses she would wear – the _necklines! _- and the colours: all shades of red, like a common harlot, I don't even want to think of the thoughts she must have put in the heads of all those young men I saw her talking to in the street…"

"You committed your own granddaughter?" Miss Swan had clearly blurted out the question before she could stop herself, and there was an uncomfortable little pause.

"My dear," Granny said with a stretched smile, "when my Roberta started calling herself _Ruby _I knew that, as her guardian, I had to do my duty even when it's painful. And I know she is well-cared for by Mrs Mills and Dr Whale here, isn't that right?"

"But of course," Regina said, "she has been responding well to the sessions with Dr Hopper -"

"...And we're hoping she might respond even better to actual _medicine_," Dr Whale broke in bravely. "There are some now procedures we're considering introducing -"

"_Considering _is a strong word," Regina said tightly.

"What are these new procedures, Dr Whale?" Sidney Glass asked jovially. "I like to think I'm a modern man myself." _But trapped in loyalties of the past, _thought Gold.

"Surgery on the brain, Mr Glass," Dr Whale said, refusing to meet Regina's eye but stubbornly continuing, as a man who is seized by a new idea can do. "Many of unsound mind are in fact troubled by an _overburdened _mind; severing the connection between the two brain halves takes away the overwhelming number of impulses that make them fretful, delusional, hysterical or violent."

"Now now, Dr Whale, I'm afraid I must side with Mrs Mills here," boomed Herbert Spencer from across the table. "Seems like those modern procedures of yours are hardly necessary when you have good old-fashioned common sense, doesn't it? That's what people need to be a productive member of society: the stiff upper lip that made Britain great!"

"I must say, Dr Whale," chimed in Granny, "I am nervous at the thought of _surgery _performed on my Roberta!"

Dr Whale laid down his fork with a clatter. "There would have to be more research, more experiments, of course," he said, "but what about the truly serious cases? What about Jefferson Ellis, whom the constables returned to the institution last week after he had escaped the premises and snatched an innocent little girl – as he has done twice before! Don't you think that in the case of a dangerous man who abducts children, there is little to lose?"

Mr Glass was nodding, and Lady Tremaine asked languidly: "Do you know _why _he abducts those children, Dr Whale?"

He shrugged. "Believes that he has a daughter of his own who has been separated from him by some evil force," he said. "But of course, the man never had children; he's completely delusional."

"Mad as a hatter," Miss Swan said pensively, and there was another short silence.

"I beg your pardon, my dear?" Granny said, and the young woman flushed. "It's from a new book that I bought in London before I came here," she said. "_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland –_ quite a new perspective."

"That sounds marvellous," Regina said dismissively. "But I think that we don't need new perspectives when the old ones _work._"

"Don't you think that maybe you need an approach towards people who are unhappy that is neither hard labour nor cutting their brain?" Miss Swan asked and, looking across the table, said: "Lord Gold, we haven't heard from you at all."

Suddenly Gold, who had been about to sip his wine, felt all eyes on him, and he slowly set down his glass. "It seems to me," he said softly, "that when the confusion, the torture, the feeling of being torn between different worldsare so deeply ingrained in the very heart and soul of a patient, there _is _no cure. There is no pain like feeling you are no longer whole, and never will be again." He kept his eyes steadily on Miss Swan, and missed the sudden change in Regina's face.

The rest of dinner conversation was guided into more conventional paths until the women stood up to move to the parlour while the men had their cigar and brandy. As she passed by his seat Miss Swan paused, to Gold's surprise, and pulled something from her pocket. "I think you might enjoy this," she said, "as someone who understands confusion and other worlds." Gold automatically took the small book she handed him and glanced at the cover. _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

….

Considering their disagreement at the dinner table, Dr Whale was surprised when Regina asked him to accompany her to her doorstep after dinner.

"This procedure you're so anxious to try out," she said, after they had been walking side-by-side in silence for a few moments. "It changes the personality, doesn't it? Makes the person a passive, detached version of who they used to be?"

"Yes," he said defensively, thinking he heard criticism, "but that is preferable to raving lunacy."

"And the procedure is irreversible?"

"It is."

It was only a short distance from the hotel to Regina's house, and they drew up to Regina's front door where she stopped. "All right, then," she said, "I'll give you your chance. In fact, I'll let you have _two _subjects to test it on, one male and one female."

He gaped at her in disbelief and delight. "Two? Who?"

"Jefferson for the male subject. And I have a female patient in mind – you haven't seen her yet, as her condition merits complete isolation." She saw his surprised frown and said soothingly: "If I were you, I would just thank me."

"Thank you, Headmistress Mills."

"You're welcome. I will see you in the morning."

Regina entered the hall of her stately home, which was already in deep rest; the nanny had put Henry to bed hours ago and most of the staff would have retired for the night as well. But Regina found herself buzzing with sudden energy. When one of the maids came into the hall to ask her if she needed anything else, she said briskly: "Saddle my horse."

….

Belle had spoken to Jefferson in whispers through the hatch in her door on and off every day that week, interrupted only when the nurse brought them the usual bland, boiled dinner. It was the same on the last evening of Belle's captivity, even if she wasn't to know it. That evening, Jefferson's answers had grown monosyllabic and he had finally fallen quiet. Fallen asleep perhaps, Belle thought and, a little dejectedly, stretched out on her own mattress again by lack of anything better to do. Staring at the ceiling, she thought of all the other questions she would have to ask Jefferson tomorrow when she sank away in apathetic sleep herself. She woke up because of something unusual – it must have been the middle of the night because her cell was pitch black, but the sound that had awoken her was the heavy door at the top of the stairs in the distance falling shut, and then there were footsteps approaching down the corridor. The crevices around the hatch in her door were faintly outlined in the yellowish light of an oil lamp. It was Headmistress Mills, she knew from the footsteps. With her breath held, she heard the door of the next cell open and the Headmistress enter. There were voices, but so low that Belle could not make out the words even though they spoke for a long time. Finally, she heard Headmistress Mills emerge and the door close and lock. The footsteps shuffled in hesitation for a moment, then advanced further and a key turned in her door and opened. The Headmistress looked unusually chic, in a sleek black gown with a diamond pin that glittered in her hair.

"I just came to say good-bye, Belle," she said, not advancing further into the cell than the door.

"Where am I going?"

"Nowhere just yet – but I've decided that you've wallowed here in this cellar long enough." Headmistress Mills appeared different from usual, and Belle realized she was nervous and seemed to be talking more to herself than to Belle. "The only thing better than hiding you here is _showing _you – so that he knows that the body still lives, but not the mind."

"Headmistress," Belle said quietly, "what do you mean?"

Headmistress Mills seemed almost to come to. "You're to undergo surgery, Belle," she said. "You'll be placed in the care of our chief physician soon, and I just wanted to tell you myself."

In the middle of the night? Belle wondered, but asked instead: "Surgery for what, Headmistress?"

"To make you better." She fidgeted with a fold of her elegant gown. "You know you wouldn't be kept down here if you weren't of unsound mind, and I ask you to trust me." Belle didn't respond and she smiled a little wistfully and said: "You were always such a nice girl, Belle. It's not the way I would have wanted things for you, you know."

"Then why-" Belle started, pleadingly, but Headmistress Mills shook her head abruptly. "I'm going to go home," she said, retreating towards the door. "I suppose I wanted to see you one last time, the way you are now."

Belle waited until she had heard the door slam again in the distance, before whispering: "Jefferson!" As it turned out, her neighbour had waited for the coast to be clear as well, for at the same moment there was a grating clicking sound, and she realized that it was the lock of the door next to hers opening.

"Jefferson?" She shrank away from the door as her lock, too, turned and opened. Her cell was almost completely dark but if she strained her eyes she could barely make out the outline of a man in her doorway – the first person she had seen for as long as she could remember, other than the nurse and the Headmistress. "Come with me," he said, and she realized that he had reached out his hand. Even though she didn't understand what was happening Belle hesitated for only a second; she had nothing to lose, after all. His grip on her hand was cool but firm as he pulled her along behind him, _out of her cell_ for the very first time; up the stairs and through the door, another corridor and then bursting into a cold, tiled hallway where a large clock ticked loudly.

"Where -" Belle started but Jefferson shushed her, creeping soundlessly towards the large double doors. Belle was not even surprised anymore when the door opened beneath his hands, and followed him quietly outside. They were now descending the front steps and broke into a run across a large, moonlit lawn. Belle automatically headed for the large gate she saw ahead, but Jefferson grabbed her arm and pulled her off to the side, whispering: "There's a porter by that gate!" Instead, he made his way to a smaller gate, half-shielded behind a neat row of trees, to the side of the asylum that towered large, dark and quiet above them.

"There," he said as the door opened once again, "quick, before someone looks out the window and spots us."

Belle had rushed through the gate before she realized that he wasn't following, and turned around to find that he had closed the gate behind her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, nonplussed.

"I'm not coming with you," he said quietly. As they looked at each other through the gate's bars it was the first time Belle had the time and light to see his face properly. He had been handsome once, she thought, but suffering and madness had taken their toll on him and could be read in his pale skin, the sunken dark eyes and the lines by his mouth that gave him a hard, bitter look.

"Why aren't you coming?" she whispered. "You could open all those doors like it was nothing -"

He shrugged indifferently. "I've done that before, I've ran away before, and it never helped," he said in a flat voice. "I never get my child back, and I can never get out of this blasted town – I can never really escape, I see that now. It's time to call it quits."

"Then why did you help me?" Belle demanded, anxious at the thought of continuing on alone.

"Because it was one last thing I could do that has any hope," he said in a low voice and, seeing the expression on her face, his own softened slightly for the first time.

"Don't be afraid," he said, not unkindly. "I'm not afraid anymore. Just listen well. There's a man – his name is Lord Gold. Find him. All you have to do is tell him where you've been, and that Regina locked you up."

"What?"

"It's very important. Lord Gold is going to protect you, but you have to tell him Regina locked you up. He's going to know what to do. You understand?"

"Yes," she said, although she didn't really. "I have to find Lord Gold."

Reaching his arm out between the gate's bars he pointed in the distance. "Do you see that light?" he asked, "over the trees?" Following the direction of his finger, Belle could indeed make out a faint light in what appeared to be a low tower, sticking out over the tree tops.

"That's the Gold estate on the hill across from town," Jefferson continued. "That's where you need to go. Run as fast as you can, don't slow down for anything; stick to the woods and avoid the open road and the people. Just go towards that light, climb over the wall, and ask for Lord Gold. Do you remember all that?" he asked urgently.

"Yes." He started to withdraw his arm through the bars, but Belle grabbed his hand and pressed a grateful kiss on the knuckles. "Thank you, Jefferson," she said.

"Good-bye, Belle." He pulled his hand back gently, and urged her: "Go now."

Jefferson stood at the gate until he had seen the pale figure in the white nightgown disappear among the trees. In his head he still heard Regina's voice._ Consider it a kindness, Jefferson, a small token that I am not beyond forgiveness; you did help me with that apple, after all. You have suffered every day under the Curse. This surgery will set you free at last._

….

Belle heeded Jefferson's advice and ran and ran and ran. She had at first been shivering in her thin cotton shift and then grew hot from running. She had not moved more than a few paces around her cell in years and, unused to the exercise, her legs soon felt like lead while every breath stung in her chest, and her feet bled from the sharp stones and roots in the ground. She went as fast as she could, pausing only a few minutes at a time when she couldn't go on. She was practically staggering by the time she finally found a stone wall among the trees. Taking a few steps back she saw that the high building with the light was on the other side and, panting heavily, ran alongside the wall looking frantically for a way in. _Climb over_, Jefferson had said, and she finally came upon a tree whose branches reached over the wall. Effortfully she dragged her exhausted limbs up and, clinging tenuously to the branch, shuffled over the wall, let herself hang by her fingers. It was more weakness than intent that led her to drop down on the ground, where she landed hard but without injury among the fallen leaves. Looking up and brushing the dirt from her shift she saw that she found herself under some trees by the edge of a wide lawn in the middle of which a large, white fountain tinkled softly. On the other side lay a massive, sprawling manor house, with the lit window in a low tower; but the light that really drew her eye, as for the very first time she took the opportunity to look around her, was the silver and breathtaking beauty of the moon, which she hadn't seen in so long.

….

Gold hadn't slept either that night. He had returned from Granny's travesty of a dinner party feeling dissatisfied and uneasy. The staff had gone to bed long ago when he still wandered the large rooms, pouring himself several stiff drinks that didn't help. Boredom, or perhaps an unconscious premonition, finally led him to wander into the garden. He flicked at the water in the fountain's basin with one limp hand (he would have to remind the staff to give it a good cleaning again), turned idly – and froze. There, among the dark trees, stood a pale apparition in a loose wide gown, as fragile as a ghost; he could make out her stance beneath the white fabric, the tangle of her hair, the way her head was tilted up towards the moon, showing just the curve of a cheekbone, and it was all so familiar – but it was impossible... She was no ghost, however; he could see smudges of dirt on the white shift and when he moved forward, his hand stretched out to touch her, to feel if she was real, she heard the rustle of grass behind her and turned to face him.

For several heartbeats they stared at each other before Gold managed to produce a hoarse whisper. "Dearie?"


	3. Chapter III

III

There was a sudden rustle of grass behind her that snapped her back to attention, and the possibility of danger. Belle whirled around to find that she was not alone in the garden after all: silhouetted against the light from the house she could make out the dark figure of a man. Although he seemed to be looking at her she couldn't make out his face with the light behind him, couldn't tell if he was angry or surprised to find her here – but she could see that he had reached out one hand as if to grab hold of her. Nervously, she took a step back and hugged herself, against the cold and for protection.

Gold, on the other hand, could see her face well in the light from the parlour that picked out her pale face against the dark garden. Although it was as lovely as he remembered it there was a fear in her expression that tore his heart as, after an eternity she finally spoke. "Are you Lord Gold?"

He had to force himself to remain calm even as it sunk in that she wasn't a hallucination, to remind himself that she no longer knew who he was. Belle was alive – but wherever she had spent all these years, she had clearly not landed well in this new world. Her appearance was haggard, her feet beneath the night gown were bloody, and she shrank from his outstretched hand like a shy animal. He dropped the hand by his side, fingers twitching with the storm of emotions even as he kept his voice neutral. "Yes, I am Lord Gold."

"I'm sorry to enter your grounds unannounced in the middle of the night," she started. "I was told to come here. If you'll let me explain –"

"Of course, of course." He gestured at the open parlour doors, afraid to take his eyes off her for even a moment in case she would disappear. "It is cold, and you're clearly not dressed for the weather. You can explain to me inside."

Although she still seemed hesitant she followed him, and he ushered her quickly into the warmth and light of the parlour. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked, gesturing at the drinks cabinet.

"No," Belle said, "no, thank you." She was bewildered by his kindness, his solicitousness, the way he kept staring at her. Then again, why would he _not _stare at a complete stranger who had just materialized in his garden? But would his kindness last when she told him that said stranger had run away from an asylum? But Jefferson had trusted him, she reminded herself, and she would have to trust Jefferson's judgement, if only because she had no other options.

"The man who helped me escape told me to come and find you," she started bravely. "He said that you would help me and I hope that you will… I promise I will leave you in peace as soon as I can."

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Who _was _this man who helped you?"

"His name is Jefferson," she said, and saw a crease appear in his brow.

"Jefferson?" he repeated incredulously and then, in a more urgent tone: "And what exactly did he help you escape _from_."

Belle took a deep breath. "The asylum on the hill across town."

For a moment she thought she had made a horrible mistake as a sudden and fearsome change came over Lord Gold's face, and he turned away abruptly towards the drinks cabinet.

"I said I didn't want a drink –"

"This one is for me." Gold kept his back towards her so that she wouldn't see his face, contorted with fury, as with slow, stiff movements he poured and mixed himself a full glass of Scotch and knocked half of it back in one go. Slowly, carefully hanging on to his composure, he turned back to face her.

"Did Regina know you were there?"

"Who?"

"Headmistress Mills."

"Well, yes," she said, puzzled. "She's the Headmistress, after all; she checked on me."

"I see." He closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. "I know a thing or two about Headmistress Mills's way of running that asylum," he said, without looking at her. "I don't doubt for a moment that you had excellent reasons for running away and you are safe here. But all that we can discuss in the morning; you look exhausted. I will show you to one of the guest rooms." In fact Gold was feeling rather dizzy himself.

….

Belle's first night of freedom was spent in a deep, exhausted sleep in which she relived a seemingly endless stumbling, unsteady run among dark trees, always glancing over her shoulder to find the asylum's tall walls still towering over her, watched from behind the windows by Headmistress Mills; by Nurse Nolan; by Jefferson. Other than that of her mysterious new benefactor, they were the only faces she had ever seen and, awaking to find a strange woman standing at the foot of her bed, her first instinct was to shrink back against the pillows.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, raising two appeasing hands. "I didn't mean to startle you – I'm Mrs Spout, Lord Gold's housekeeper. I came to bring you something to wear." Although the spotless white apron and strict bun reminded her of the nurse, Mrs Spout's face was kind and concerned as she held up a simple blue dress as if to prove that she was speaking the truth. "The Sunday frock of one the maids," she said, almost apologetically. "Lord Gold told me to get the dressmaker up here as soon as possible, and she should be here before lunch time; but I thought you might like something to wear in the meanwhile."

"Oh – thank you," Belle said a little awkwardly, sliding out from beneath the covers. Mrs Spout surveyed her sympathetically, from her wild mop of hair to her cut and bruised feet. "It's no wonder you were so skittish just now; it must have been absolutely horrific to be in a shipwreck and lose the rest of your company. Our shores are so rocky and densely forested, it's a wonder that you made it up the cliffs, let alone found the manor in the dead of night night."

Clearly, Gold had already told his housekeeper a story to explain Belle's presence in his house and she decided to stay vague. "I was very fortunate that Lord Gold is so kind."

"He told me to send for Doctor Whale if you appeared to be feeling ill."

"That won't be necessary, I feel fine." Overwhelmed, bewildered, confused – but above all, she felt exhilarated. _Only last night she had been in her bare prison cell, slowly but gradually losing all hope of ever getting out._

"In that case, would you like some breakfast? Lord Gold would like to see you as soon as you've eaten."

….

If Belle was still in a daze, so was Gold. He had spent the rest of the night pacing, feeling as if the facade of cold indifference of the past twenty-eight years had cracked in half, releasing a storm of feelings whose intensity he had almost forgotten. There was, first and foremost, an intense, plunging feeling of immense relief, and a joy that he scarcely dared acknowledge for fear that it would be just one of the dreams, like he had when he had first come to Storybrooke. There was a fierce and abiding hatred of Regina, whom he could have torn limb from limb if she had magically appeared in front of him. And beneath it all there was a throb of pain every time he recalled the look in Belle's eyes when she first turned around and saw him. There had been apprehension, fear, but no recognition. She had no idea that she knew him. _She no longer loved him_. But Gold was a practical man and knew he had to acknowledge that he was a stranger to her and it wouldn't do to let her see his emotional turmoil. She would think he was crazy.

He had gone to see Mrs Spout the moment she was awake to give his instructions regarding the new guest, and spent the hours since counting the minutes until she came to tell him that Belle awaited him in the parlour. By the time she did, he finally felt like he was prepared to act the part of benevolent stranger.

Despite his grand intentions, his composure took a hit the moment he walked into the room. Belle had her back towards him and didn't hear him come in, immersed as she was in a small book: Miss Swan's _Wonderland_ book, he realized, which he had tossed carelessly on the table the night before. Now that her hair had been brushed and she was dressed in something other than a torn nightgown, the scene was so achingly familiar that it stung and he paused for a moment to gather himself before speaking. "Interesting?"

She turned around immediately and got to her feet. "Lord Gold -" she started, starting to drop into a curtsy, but he waved her upright again.

"You can call me Gold and remain vertical, my dear."

"As you wish."

She seemed afraid to look him in the eye, this new Belle. He cleared his throat. "I said it last night and I'll say it again," he said. "I know that the goings-on at the asylum are brutal and harsh, and I can only applaud you for leaving that place. You are welcome to stay here as long as you want, and I will offer you all assistance to recover from your ordeal."

"Why?"

"Why? Is it so hard to believe that I could simply be a philanthropic good Samaritan?" She seemed unsure whether he was serious or not and he realized that he she wasn't ready for humour. She would need a different approach altogether. "Would you like me to show you around the manor?" he asked abruptly.

….

It was common knowledge in Storybrooke that Regina Mills was the best horsewoman in the area. She was always at the head of every fox hunt and could often be seen in the forests around Storybrooke aback one of the large, well-cared for prize animals she kept in her stables; she cut a smart figure in her jet black riding habit, riding crop at an angle and skirt trailing down the horse's flank. Regina found it to be the most exhilarating release of pent-up tension, flying among the trees at full speed. On this particular day, she had thought that the only troubles to be exorcised were those of Henry ("You're not my mother!") and the damnable Emma Swan ("You have no idea what I'm capable of"). When she came charging through the asylum gates, however, Nurse Nolan was waiting for her at the front steps and she could tell from her face that yet more bad news was about to hit.

"What?" Regina snapped, pulling at the reigns as the stallion snorted and pranced.

"One of our patients has run away," the nurse said, the flatness in her voice failing to mask her anxiety.

"For God's sake," Regina stormed, "_again_? I thought Jefferson was safely put in a straitjacket! You'll have to send a message to Detective Humbert again, but-"

"It's not Jefferson," the nurse interrupted, lowering her voice to a whisper: "It's Belle."

That was when Regina knew that the day had really taken a turn for the worse.

She couldn't call the constables or other staff to aid in the search of a patient no one had ever seen or heard of, on whom there were no records, without prompting questions she wasn't prepared to answer.

Regina circled the premises on horseback, following the outer wall and keeping a sharp eye out. She almost missed it at first: footsteps in the sandy ground between the small side gate (mysteriously, still padlocked) and the forest edge. This wouldn't have been strange in itself – but whoever had walked here had been barefoot. Regina slipped from the saddle and, leading her mount by the reins, followed the trail a short way further. Her practiced hunter's eye could make out interspersed marks of stumbling feet where the ground was soft among the roots and pine needles, winding among the trees. She did not need to wonder where this fox had found a den, however. Although the trail was looping and straggling, there was no question about where it was headed. Over the tree tops she could make out the roofs of the Gold estate.

….

Belle looked pale and small, walking a polite half step behind him as Gold showed her through the parlours, the massive ballroom, the great hall. He had seen her like that before, although she didn't know it; the yellow dress she had been wearing like a small speck of light in the Dark Castle – true to its name, at the time, with the curtains nailed shut – and the fearful, pale face, those first months. Gold hadn't cared at the time, but it bothered him now and he led her quickly to the wing that he knew would pique her interest: the one that housed his collection.

He was right about that, at least, and it was a secret relief that she hadn't become a complete stranger. From the corners of his eyes he could see her grow more animated as they wandered along the massive gallery that housed his collection, dimly lit to preserve the artifacts. Glancing sideways, he could see her gazing up, as solemnly as if she were in a church, at the gloomy Flemish oil paintings; the twelfth century hunting scene tapestries; coats of armour in all shapes and sizes; pale, flowered Japanese silk screens; carved wooden statuettes from Africa.

"Have you been to all these places?" she asked, delighted.

"Yes," he lied easily. Everyone in town knew that Lord Gold had been an avid traveler when he was a young man, though no one could remember the last time he'd actually left Storybrooke.

"I would so much like to see the world," she said, touching a careful finger to the ferociously grinning wooden mask from Zambia.

"Perhaps you will," he said although, with a pang of regret for her, he knew she would never leave Storybrooke.

Belle lingered for a long time in the portrait gallery where a long line of fictional Gold ancestors lined the walls dating back to 1066. "The de Gaulles arrived in England with the Norman Invasion," he recounted, "their name changing over the centuries to de Gaulde, then Golde..."

"That's amazing," she said, studying the ruffle-collared, glowering form of Lord Geoffrey Gaulde anno 1638, "being able to know so exactly where you come from." She smiled wistfully. "When I can't even trace my heritage back a single generation."

_If only I could tell you you are a Duke's daughter. _"It's eight centuries of baggage," he said evasively. "A world traveler travels lighter without it." He quickly went on to a small door at the end of the gallery. "Here is the last part of my collection," he said. "And my favourite."

It was an uncanny experience guiding Belle through the last room and seeing how she didn't recognize any of the remnants of the Dark Castle that she had known like the back of her hand, once upon a time. She walked right past his spinning wheel, the pair of grimacing puppets, assorted paintings and figurines that had littered the Castle for century. Part of him had been foolishly hoping that her memory could be jogged somehow, although he knew it couldn't be done – knew it better than anyone, having designed the Curse himself. But when she paused suddenly and leaned forward to examine something on a marble pedestal he thought for one moment... "Why is that tea cup here?" she asked quizzically. "It looks completely ordinary. Not to mention that it's chipped."

"There's material value and sentimental value, my dear," he said, hiding his disappointment. "In terms of the latter, it's absolutely priceless."

She smiled disbelievingly. "That must be the case for everything in the room," she said, "because they don't look particularly precious."

"Not easily impressed by my humble collection, I see," he said loftily, and when she flushed and started to speak he shook his head: "Say no more! I will simply have to astound you with the one last thing I have to show you."

"What?"

"The library."

If there was one advantage to the memory loss, it was that he could re-live the look of delight on her face when he led her into the library and told her to open her eyes, a look he had seen once before in another world. This library was significantly smaller than that in the Dark Castle but the expression on her face was just as radiant as she spun around and around, looking at the three stories of bookshelves in neat galleries one above the other, the scrolled ceiling, the French windows that opened onto a terrace overlooking the garden. But although meticulously dusted and swept like the rest of Gold's estate, this was tangibly a room that was rarely used, the books set on the shelves haphazardly by people who did not care to open their covers.

"It doesn't look like many people use it," Belle said in a reverential whisper.

"I have a feeling that will change," Gold whispered back.

….

When Regina had gone to the Ritz for tea, it was a move of necessity rather than choice. Granny's great remonstrations of friendship (the kisses on the cheek, the "my dear"s) repelled her, the gossip bored her, the angling for news of the goings-on at the asylum and Roberta in particular annoyed her. But it was precisely the gossip she needed today, to find out to what extent her worst fears had been confirmed. So she sipped her tea sparsely, saying little as Granny – who had joined her within minutes – gorged herself on cucumber sandwiches while spewing the news. A juicy bit of gossip it was, after all: the rumour that a young lady was staying at the Gold estate, _unchaperoned. _The dressmaker had returned from the mansion that afternoon with the description of a slight, blue-eyed girl, young and pretty. One of the maids, come to town to do groceries, had reported that the girl was the victim of a shipwreck that had claimed the lives of her company, that she had lost her luggage but managed to clamber onto the rocks and find her way to the Gold estate in the dead of night...

"I never would have thought of Lord Gold as such a good Samaritan," Granny said, motioning at the head waiter to bring out another platter of sandwiches. "To be quite frank, I always found him rather – _intimidating. _Almost cold, in fact. But when his fellow man needs him..."

"Well, his fellow _woman_," Regina said, faking concern. "A young and – apparently – attractive woman, vulnerable and unaccompanied."

Granny's munching jaws slowed pensively. "You don't suppose there's something _inappropriate_ going on at the manor, do you, Regina, dear?" she asked. "I mean, people of noble birth are usually not _inclined _towards moral decadence."  
Regina shrugged lightly. "I suppose we'll have to keep our eyes and ears open just in case," she said. "For the girl's benefit, of course. I know you are a person of influence in this town, _Granny._" And although she hated the childish nickname and her heart felt cool and dead, she laid a hand on the older woman's and smiled.


End file.
